


Painted Lady

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin finds some of Belle's hobbies curious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted Lady

“What are you doing, dearie?”

Belle held up her hand, admiring her handiwork. “I was just seeing if it was possible to make skin look like yours,” she said, looking up from the table. It was covered in paint pots and jars, most of which were a mix of golds, browns and greens.

Rumpelstiltskin gave her a doubtful look. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked.

The lady of the Southlands gave him a small smile that suggested he should really know better than to ask such silly questions. “Well, if it’s possible to look like you, I was wondering if you were maybe just making yourself look like that for fun.”

“Fun?” His upper lip curled back.

She stood up suddenly and caught his wrist. “Come here,” she demanded, pulling him closer and putting her hand beside his. In the soft light of the candles, her hand could almost have matched his own, right down to the dark stain around the nails. “It looks quite good, doesn’t it?”

He gaped at her, then yanked his wrist back. “You, my lady, make no sense at all.”

She smiled that sweet smile at him. “I make complete sense, all the time,” she replied. “And if I have nothing else to do, what harm does it do for me to play with paint?”

He huffed and puffed, then stalked out of the kitchen, her laughter following him.

The next night, when he returned home, Belle was smiling and pink-cheeked as she served his food for him. He couldn’t help noticing that there were still paint stains on her skin, though how she ended up with paint under her ear, he didn’t know. 

It was only made worse when he found paint smudged on the rim of his spinning wheel. 

He knew he could have asked, and he knew she would have made up some nonsense about cleaning and not realising the cloth was stained. It wouldn’t explain why there were rhythmic patterns of fingerprints along the edge of the wheel.

That was when he decided to come back earlier than usual the next night.

He crept back to the Dark Castle, shedding his heavy boots to walk silently on bare feet through the halls. He knew every passage and corridor well enough to keep to the blind spots, looking for his little housekeeper. 

She was in the spinning room when he found her, the flicker of magic guiding him at once, and the door was only open a crack. He leaned as close as he dared, peeking through to see what the woman was up to.

She was at the wheel, which didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him, though, was the fact she was wearing one of his shirts, open at the chest with the sides tucked behind her. Her painted hands emerged from the billowing golden sleeves, and she cupped her breast through her corset. Her replicas of his hands, on her breast.

His heart thumped oddly, shocked, dazed.

Belle’s eyes were closed, and she bit her lower lip as her other hand tugged at the laces of the corset, loosening it enough to let her slip her hand between flesh and fabric. She made a soft, breathless sound, which Rumpelstiltskin echoed, barely audibly, watching as those scaled-up little hands kneaded and caressed in ways he hadn’t even dared to imagine.

Her head rolled back, her hair cascading down her back, and she tugged at the stays, letting more of the hand move beneath the clothing. “Oh,” she breathed.

Rumpelstiltskin wrapped his hands around the door handles. It would so simple to walk in, to interrupt, to see how she flushed and was mortified, but he was horrified and completely unsurprised that he was enjoying her little show too much to stop her. 

One of her hands was moving down, tangling in her skirt, and she shifted on the stool. Her lower lip must be bitten to bloody, he though dazedly, as she gave another softly stifled whimper. He saw the glimpse of a creamy knee, a flash of a thigh, and then her hand - his surrogate - was beneath her skirts. 

He heard her whispering, barely audible, and leaned a little closer.

“There, dearie?” Her voice was a little sharper than usual. “Show me where.”

Rumpelstiltskin almost folded to his knees with want.

“Please,” she moaned faintly, and he could see her hand was moving under her skirt with more and more urgency. The hand at her corset slip upwards, cradling her face, and the thumb brushed her lower lip, slipping between, into her mouth, and Rumpelstiltskin’s claws almost carved through his breeches into his thighs as she sucked, her cheeks hollowing around the thumb she was imagining as his. 

His own breath was coming as rapid as hers, and he clenched his hands into fists, trying to resist the urge to reach inside his breeches, to tend himself as she was. Her hand was moving more urgently now, and she withdrew her thumb from her mouth, clutching at the wheel. Soft, ragged whimpers were escaping her as she rocked against the hand beneath her skirts, her face flushed and radiant.

Rumpelstiltskin’s teeth cut into his lower lip. His body was coiled as tense as a wire, as her soft, sobbing cries rose in pitch and intensity. She was all but trembling on the little stool and she cried out his name sudden and sharp, sagging against the wheel. 

He felt like he had survived an avalanche, emotions crashing down on him and threatening to sweep him away. Nothing, though, was quite as prominent in his attention as the throbbing in his groin. If she wanted to be touched by his hands, who was he to refuse the lady?

He pushed the doors open silently, and made his way to the wheel where she was still slumped, breathing raggedly. He was behind her before she even realised, and slid one hand over her shoulder, drawing a startled gasp from her.

“There there, dearie,” he murmured and felt her shiver. “You could have just asked.”

His fingers trailed down over her collarbone to her obligingly-loosened corset, and he delved teasingly between cloth and flesh. She gasped as his fingertips brushed, then tweaked teasingly at her nipple, then he rubbed a slow circle against it with his palm.

“Better?” he murmured close to her ear, his other hand, sliding along her arm to cover the hand still resting on the edge of the wheel. She nodded, trembling, and leaned back into him, her back pressing against his groin, making him groan. “Tell me, dearie,” he breathed, nuzzling her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me?” she asked in a breathless whisper, as if hardly daring to believe he would.

He nibbled the edge of her ear. “Specifics?” He let his breath rush over the damp trail left by teeth and lips on her ear. “Show me, dearie. Show me what you want.”

She drew his hand down from the wheel with her own, pressing his palm to her cheek. Her hot, panting breath ran like water over his skin, and as he kneaded at her breast with one hand, she pressed hungry, open-mouthed kisses to the other, her tongue darting out to taste his palm, swirling in circles that made heat surge through him.

The temptation was too great and he ran his thumb along her lips, biting down on a groan when she opened them and slid her tongue against the ball of his thumb in invitation. He slipped his thumb between her lips, thrusting against the warmth of her mouth, even as she pressed against his hand, and he could feel her body moving again, her other hand still hidden out of sight.

“Ah, ah, dearie,” he murmured, drawing his hand from her breast to catch her wrist. “No fair playing by yourself.” He lowered his head and drew on her throat, making her gasp and whimper again. He scraped his teeth over the mark he left, the little rose. “We’re playing together now, dear.” He withdrew his thumb from her mouth, trailing the slick digit down the front of her throat. “Now, tell me what you want.”

She pushed back against him. “You,” she all but growled, the sound going from ear to aching groin in a heartbeat.

“Belle…”

She tilted her head to look up at him. There was paint smeared on her chin across her lips, and her face was still flushed, but it was the look in his eyes, the sheer heat and hunger, which made him groan again.

“Taste,” she whispered, lifting up the hand that had been beneath her skirts. His hand was still around her wrist, but she was the string and he the puppet. He lowered his head and dragged his tongue along one fingertip. She shivered, but not as much as he did at the taste of her, the pure essence of her. He licked again, more greedily, then sucked and lapped at each finger, as she pulled his other hand back to her open corset.

He was rocking against her back even as his mouth explored her fingers, and his hand pushed her dress aside and down and out of the way. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly between his hand and his hips, and she whimpered again, wonderfully, heatedly. 

“I want,” she whispered, as his mouth moved from her fingers down her hand, down her wrist. “Rumpelstiltskin, I want you.”

“Want me…” he echoed, dazed, awed, wanting.

She rose from the stool on trembling legs, her body rubbing the length of his as she did so, and he hissed. His hand slid down as she rose, and all he had was a handful of skirts, and that just wasn’t enough at all.

He caught both her wrists, lifting her hands to the rim of the wheel. “Hold on, dearie,” he murmured against her throat, laving his tongue over the lovebite, then adding another beside it, as his hands fisted in her skirts, pulling them up.

It was only when he dared a glance down, as the skirts rose above her knees that he realised dizzyingly that she had nothing beneath. There was moisture visible on her thighs, where her hand had been, and she arched her back, pressing her hips towards him in wordless invitation. 

He couldn’t help it, reaching out one hand to trace his index fingertip between her thighs. It came away smeared with paint, and she shivered, a longing whine escaping her throat.

That sound almost undid him, and he fumbled with the laces of his breeches. 

“Please,” she whispered, as he slid his hands up her thighs over her hips, drawing her back against him.

His heart was drumming and he felt light headed, but he wouldn’t be himself, if he didn’t have the last word. “What do you want, dearie?” he breathed, so close, so very close to her. It felt like burning, like fire, like heaven and hell all rolled into one. 

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she breathed. 

She said it like a prayer, and he couldn’t have resisted her if he wanted.

“Hold on, dearie,” he breathed against her throat, then thrust, and sheathed himself deep in her wonderful, waiting body. Belle cried out, but it wasn’t pain, not wholly. She pressed herself back against him, as if she could push him deeper, and panted, her chest rising and falling against his.

“Gods,” she whispered, the wheel trembling as she clung to it.

Rumpelstiltskin released a trembling breath, barely daring to move, to think, to anything. His hands kneaded at her hips and he groaned as she rolled her body back against his, making a shudder of pleasure run through him.

“Touch me?” she pleaded, rocking her hips slowly, needily. 

It took effort to move his hand from her hip, but he wrapped his arm around her, slipping his hand beneath her corset again, and started to move against her. It was awkward, clumsy, but the heat of her was enough to drive him half mad. 

Every so often, the wheel skittered, knocking the rhythm off, and she laughed, then he laughed, and he would find a new rhythm, a new angle, and she would gasp, and her breast would push against his hand. His other hand slid from her other hip, down, over, brushing over damp, dark curls, and she was sandwiched between him and his hand, and she was moving as eagerly as he was. 

She tossed her head, her hair in his face, her back to his chest and she was moving hard and fast and shivering and he could feel her body tightening around him, hot and throbbing and he pushed harder and harder against her, until she sobbed out his name in broken spurts, one pieces at a time, over and over, until she pulled it altogether in a breathless scream.

The pit of his belly clenched and he thrust hard against her as he let her voice carry him over the edge. She was swaying, the wheel teetering, and he didn’t have the strength to hold them both up, their legs trembling, and their breath in rags and whimpers.

The fell, graceless, in a heap on the floor, tumbled off the wheel like twisted pieces of straw woven into one.

He gathered her closer her. “No bruises, dearie?” he breathed.

She laughed hoarsely. “No more than expected,” she whispered, twisting in his arms to look up at him. She lifted a painted hand to touch his cheek, his lips. “I didn’t know you wanted.”

He moved his head to kiss her fingertips. “Or I you.”

She smiled, warm and sated, his little smug cat. “Well,” she murmured, tapping the end of his nose. “You do now.”

His lips quirked. “I may need to have you refresh my memory from time to time,” he offered.

Belle laughed, and pulled his lips down to hers in a kiss that made his heart sing.


End file.
